With his left arm, he gestured to the broken-down Bowery, with its Christian missions and flophouses, fleabag hotels and tattoo parlors, restaurant-supply stores and rinky-dink manufacturers.
“ ‘Babylon is fallen, is fallen, that great city.’ ”
He pointed to where a couple of drunks slept on the stoop of a flophouse. “Terrible. Someone should clean up this sort of riffraff, turn them back at the borders. They’re not like you and me, Miss Bates. Clean. Good citizens. People with ambitions. Contributors to this shining city on the hill.”
Ruta hadn’t ever thought about it before, but she found herself nodding. She looked at those men with a new disgust. They were different from her family. Foreign.
“Not our kind.” The stranger shook his head. “Once upon a time, the Bowery was home to the most stupendous restaurants and theaters. The Bowery Theatre—that great American theater, which was a sock in the eye to the elitist European theaters. The great thespian J. B. Booth, father of John Wilkes Booth, trod its boards. Are you a patron of the arts, Miss Bates?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes. I am. I’m an actress.” For some reason, Ruta felt a little giddy. The streets had a pretty glow to them.
“But of course! Pretty girl such as you. There’s something quite special about you, isn’t there, Miss Bates? I can tell that you have a very important destiny to fulfill, indeed. ‘And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet and decked with gold and precious stones….’ ”
The stranger smiled. In spite of the late hour, the strangeness of the circumstances, and the aching in her legs, Ruta smiled, too. The stranger—no, he wasn’t a stranger at all, was he? He was Mr. Hobbes. Such a nice man. Such a smart man—classy, too. Mr. Hobbes thought she was special. He could see what no one else could. It was what her grandmother would call a wróz.ba, an omen. She wanted to cry with gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“ ‘And upon her forehead was written a name of mystery,’ ” the stranger said, and his face was alight with a strange fire.
“You a preacher or something?”
“I’m sure you must be eager to call your family,” Mr. Hobbes said in answer. “No doubt they’ll be worried?”
Ruta thought of her family’s cramped apartment in Greenpoint and tried not to laugh. Her father would be awake next to her mother, coughing off the damp and the cigarettes and the factory dust in his lungs. Her four brothers and sisters would be crammed together in the next room, snoring. She wouldn’t be missed. And she wasn’t in a hurry to return.
“I don’t wanna wake ’em,” she said, and Mr. Hobbes smiled.
They walked a dizzying number of side streets, until Ruta felt quite lost. The Manhattan Bridge loomed in the distance like the gate to an underworld. A light drizzle fell. “Hey—hey, Mr. Hobbes, is it gonna be much farther?”
“Here we are. Your chariot awaits,” he said, and Ruta saw a broken-down wagon, the old-fashioned kind, drawn by an old nag.
“I thought you said it was nearby.”
“But you’re tired. I’ll drive us the rest of the way.”
Ruta climbed into the buggy, and its gentle swaying rhythm and the clopping of the horse rocked her to sleep. When the old buggy stopped, all she saw was a hulking ruin of an old mansion on a hill surrounded by weedy vacant lots.
Ruta shrank back. “I thought you said you had a boardinghouse. Ain’t nothing here but a wreck.”
“My dear, your eyes play tricks on you. Look again,” Mr. Hobbes whispered low.
He waved his arm, and this time she saw a charming block of attached row houses, warm and homey, and at the end, a fancy mansion like the kind millionaires lived in, people with names like Carnegie and Rockefeller. Why, this Mr. Hobbes fella might even be a millionaire himself! The light drizzle turned to rain. Her velvet beaded shoes with the rhinestone buckles—her prized possession, worth a week’s pay—would be ruined, so she followed the man across the street toward shelter. A black cat crossed her path, startling her, and she laughed nervously. She was getting as bad as her superstitious aunt Pela, who saw evil omens everywhere. The door screamed shut on its hinges behind her and Ruta jumped. The man smiled beneath his heavy mustache, but the smile brought little warmth to his piercing blue eyes. This thought occurred to her fleetingly, but she dismissed it as silly. She was out of the rain, and in a minute she could sit and rest her bone-weary legs.
The place smelled wrong, though. Like damp and rot and something else she couldn’t put her finger on, but it unsettled her stomach. She put a hand to her nose.
“Alas, a poor unfortunate cat was lost in the walls. His aroma, I’m afraid, lingers,” Mr. Hobbes said. “But you’re cold and tired. Come sit. I’ll make a fire.”
Ruta followed the man into another room. Squinting against the dark, she could see the outline of a fireplace. She stumbled and put out a hand to steady herself. The wall felt wet and sticky against her flesh. She yanked her hand away quickly and wiped it on her dress, shuddering.
Mr. Hobbes stepped in front of the cold, blackened fireplace, and in the next moment a roaring fire appeared. Ruta tried to make sense of the sudden flames licking inside the chimney. No, she told herself. He had put in wood and struck a match. Of course he had. She couldn’t remember it, but that’s what must have happened. Boy, that marathon had done a number on her head.
“I-I think I oughta ring my folks after all. They’ll be pretty sore if I don’t.”
“Of course, my dear. I’ll wake my sister. But first, I promised coffee.”
Suddenly, the cup was in her hand.
“Drink. I won’t be a moment.”